


A Warrior's Death

by SepulchreRS



Category: Runescape (Video Games)
Genre: Dying Gift, Gen, Hero vs. Hero, Mercy Killing, Snow, Swordfighting, The Legend of Arrav, Wall Writing, so much snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:55:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28698765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SepulchreRS/pseuds/SepulchreRS
Summary: Freedom is the one thing everybody takes for granted, until they don't have it anymore.Life is the one thing everyone clings to, until they've experienced enough of it.Arrav was a hero who yearned for the first, but tired of the second. Both of these wishes were fulfilled by the same person, within a week of each other.





	1. Last Request

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laying behind the white walls of Falador Castle, 'Sepulchre' is taking a well-earned rest in the aftermath of the Ritual of Rejuvenation. She believes all the loose ends surrounding this monumental battle to be tied up or cut off, but she's wrong.  
> One last loose end awaits her back in the cold north...

Four days removed from the Mahjarrat Ritual, an exhausted adventurer lay sleeping in the chambers of Falador Castle. It was nearly noon and she had done nothing but laze about since their return from the north, yet nobody dared disturb her. She had survived both battle with creatures that gave even demons nightmares, and the awakening of creatures that gave the gods themselves nightmares. One of the former had tried to do… something to her, something that was keeping her up at night.

From the skies above the White City, a small gold-feathered messenger dove towards the ground, soon finding a perch on the single window that brought light to this adventurer’s abode.

The peaceful afternoon murmur was spoilt by a horrendous sound, a sound that one would expect to send such an animal fleeing in terror. This would likely be the case, if the source of the sound had not been the bird in question.

The Adventurer didn’t take long to awaken. The hideous screech made for an effective alarm, and the bird finally settled only as she took the note from its back. _I know this bird,_ she thought to herself. _She belongs to Ali— no, to Wahisietel._

* * *

That was three days ago. She had spent the last three days following the simple instructions written on to the note: Return to the Ritual site with your blades.

She had taken the lodestone to the Seers’ Village, hiked her way back up the Fremenniks frozen hunting grounds, navigated the sea route to the ruins of Ghorrock fortress, and with new daylight, had found once more the ruined wall that gave passage to the site of the Ritual. She scrambled across the fallen stone, and began her trek down the white blanket of snow.

Torva's plate armor was warm, but made trudging through the snow an endurance test without equal. After only half an hour, the adventurer began to wonder if she hadn’t been played for a fool, yet something pushed her forward. Some part of her already knew why she was here.

Peering through the mist, she could just barely make out a humanoid shape to the south. The figure stood patiently as if waiting for someone; whoever they were, Wahisietel had summoned her here for them. The closer she came, the more identifiable the figure was, and it didn’t take long for her to recognize him.

A tall and burly gray-skinned figure stood amongst the snow, holding a large black blade of his own. He wore black leather legs protected by side-tassets, greaves, and sabatons; all made of a weathered dark steel.

Though he wore no top, his forearms were protected well by vambraces of the same leather, but only the left wore a couter and gauntlet. Curved demon-like horns protruded from either side of a steel armet helm, though the right-side horn was largely missing. Nothing was visible behind the helm save for a pair of glowing vermillion eyes.

It was the custom gorget that betrayed his identity. When first they met, the trim of his gorget had emphasized a hole where the heart should be. It was by her efforts that the heart - now preserved in a canopic jar - once more occupied its rightful place, causing the veins and arteries beneath his scarred and decaying skin to glow an unnatural orange.

The adventurer made her way as quickly as the armor would allow. Her rush had fortunately attracted the man’s attention, and he too began to march in her direction.

  
By the time they caught up with each other, the adventurer had nearly tired herself out.

“Arrav,” she gasped, taking off her helmet; speaking and breathing were easier without it.

“I am sorry for calling you out here so soon after the Ritual, Sepulchre, but I’m afraid I have little time.” The Hero of Avarrocka was getting straight to the point.

“Well I wasn’t exactly busy,” she admitted. “I was still recovering from everything that happened here.”

Her eyes scanned the area, quickly catching the Ritual marker off in the distance.

“Yes, forgive me, my undead body does not tire.” The tone he spoke in reflected the pain of this truth. “I have been… this… for so long that I have forgotten what that feels like.”

Her gaze shifted back to the Ritual stone.

“Don’t worry about it, Arrav…” Her voice had softened. “How did you reach out to Wahisietel? He left the Ritual site before I did.”

Arrav produced a peculiar piece of folded parchment from his belt and handed it over to his liberator.

Unfurling the paper, she soon understood how he had accomplished that.

In short, the message explained how the Mahjarrat had enchanted the jar Arrav’s heart rested in, similar to Zemouregal. Unlike Zemouregal’s ability to control Arrav, this enchantment allowed Wahisietel to communicate with him, but only once. The message went on to say that Wahisietel would attempt to open this link at sundown three days after the Ritual ended.

 _Wahisietel must’ve stuck this note to the jar,_ she concluded, _but I know I didn’t see it there. Was it concealed from my sight? Why did he keep this from me?_

“I did not know of this,” There was a hint of displeasure in her tone, “but I suppose I should be grateful he did it. If he hadn’t, you would’ve been stuck here.

“So, how can I help you, Arrav?” she asked, bringing her eyes up from the paper. “Time to pay Zemouregal back by bringing down his fort, or maybe explore the cave that Lucien kept the Stone in? Oh I know, you must want a way off this gods-forsaken plateau.”

Arrav shook his head. “No, Sepulchre,” he answered with a strange determination. “I brought you here to kill me.”

  
The sheet of paper was swept out of her grasp, her will to hold it suddenly absent. Her body took a step back without command, and Torva’s helmet dropped into the snow.

“Wh… what did you say…?” Her voice barely reached his ears through the lump in her throat.

“As I told you, I have little time left. It has been but a week since you freed me from Zemouregal’s shackles, and I fear my body will have given out before another has passed.” Arrav’s voice was still resolute. “My body is thousands of years old, my friend, and the decay would be slow and painful. That is not the death I desire.”

“Then we’ll find a different way to keep you alive!” she whimpered, pushing harder to be audible. “If someone like Zemouregal can do it, I’m sure there are others who can too. Maybe Hazeel can—”

“I will not be traded from one Mahjarrat to another, Sepulchre,” he interrupted, soft yet stern.

“H-Hazeel isn’t like Zemouregal,” she argued, looking down out of shame. “You saw for yourself during the Ritual. He agreed to sacrifice Lucien from the start, he just refused to attack his Zamorakian allies…”

The ancient hero once again shook his head. “I cannot bring myself to trust any of their kind fully, not even Wahisietel, despite all he has done for me.

“I failed to protect Avarrocka from Zemouregal, I was made into his slave and took many innocent lives under his control. I led his attack on Varrock and killed the descendants of the people I failed to protect,” he lamented, his gaze also falling to the snow beneath him. “An invasion ended by your hands. Varrock is safer with you than it ever was with me.”

He sighed, exhausted by the centuries. “One thousand years is long enough, Sepulchre. You have done so much for me already, but I fear I must ask you this last favor: help me to rest in peace.”

  
Not a sound was made for several minutes. No animals made a sound, no wind blew, and no voices spoke.

Then, a single tear fell to the snow beneath her. “It’s not fair…” she mumbled.

Her hands shot up to his chest and clenched tightly around the straps of his gorget. “ _It isn’t fair, Arrav!"_ the now clearly distraught woman cried, looking up at him with vision blurred by tears. “You’re the only reason there _is_ a Varrock!

“You killed a whole tribe of Goblins at _twelve_ years old, stopping an attack on the town. You accepted being shunned by everybody, robbed of a home just to protect strangers. then, when you saw that Avarrocka was burning, you went back to the people who abandoned you and saved them!” She had never remembered ‘The Legend of Arrav’ in better detail than she did in this moment.

“The only reason humans and goblins exist in peace today is because _you_ convinced the Goblins to accept it!” A single tear trickled down her cheek.

“You were the one who was entrusted with the Shield, and _you_ were the one who gave his life in a fight against an enemy you knew you could never beat! You gave everything for that city, the city that _I_ called home!”

The Child of the Sun and Moon stood motionless, absolutely blown away by this sudden rise of emotions. _For how long has she thought so highly of me?_ he wondered.

Her sad countenance turned bitter as she pressed on. “And you want me to do what, exactly? Run you through and leave you in this frozen waste to turn to dust?! Cut you down with my blade, wipe the blood in the snow and walk away?? You want to be just another notch on the belt of lives I’ve taken that were worth more than mine?? The answer is NO!” Her temper seemed to reach its peak.

“You deserve to be displayed in the center square of Varrock,” she insisted, “with the King and that damnable Archbishop leading the entire city, no, the entire _Kingdom_ in commemoration! Your corpse belongs in the King’s Catacombs with the past monarchs and the ‘heroes’ who died being revered for doing a fraction of the things that you’ve done!”

Small tears ran down both her cheeks. “You’re their greatest hero, Arrav,” she keened, her hands violently shoving off his chest. “You’re _MY_ hero!”

All base in her voice died, “You deserve a hero’s death...”

A deafening silence fell over the plateau.

  
Arrav stood in deep contemplation, taking in the words of the young hero before him, recalling the events she recounted to him. Sepulchre, meanwhile, wiped the tears from her eyes and picked up both her helmet and his paper.

“I am… truly sorry, Sepulchre. I did not realize that I meant so much to the people of Varrock, nor to you.” Arrav did not look at her. “But we do not have time to give me this ‘hero’s death’ you speak of.”

As the words left his mouth, an idea struck him - almost as if whispered to him by the gods themselves. “However, there is an equally worthy death, if you would do me the honour.”

There was a glimmer of hope in her eyes when they looked up to him. “What kind of death is that?”

Arrav hefted his massive black blade up from the snow, shifted his legs to take a wider stance, and brought his sword out in front of him. The vermillion glow beneath his helm looked more akin to flames than eyes - a fire had been lit in Arrav, a fire he’d not felt in over a thousand years. _After all these centuries,_ _I can battle of my own accord,_ he thought. _And b_ _attle I must, for I have found the worthiest opponent._

“Give me a warrior’s death. Take up your arms, bring your blades to mine, and give me a death befitting a warrior," the Hero of Avarrocka proposed. “No fire burns forever, Sepulchre, and the only thing I wish to extinguish mine is the intensity of yours!”

The fire that ignited in his heart was immediately raging in hers. Sepulchre slipped Torva’s helm back over her head with zeal. There was no wasted motion as she reached behind it, pulling Torva’s twin black gladii, engraved with Infernal runes in the color of the Empty Lord they served, free from their scabbards.

She nodded. “I’ve forgotten what it’s like to take up arms for sport,” she commented, putting distance between them. “Though I bet that’s rich coming from a twenty-nine year-old woman.”

Twenty paces later - the proper distance for a duel - she turned back, taking up a wide combat stance of her own.

Both now stood like statues, waiting for any sign from on high to begin this clash of heroes. Without warning, a dragon within Ghorrock let out a deafening roar; champions of two ages blazed across the snowy field, their battle imminent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arrav has always been one of my favourite characters in Runescape, so I figured I'd end up writing something about him. I always thought the post-quest scene with Arrav following _Ritual of the Mahjarrat_ was lacking something, so I decided I may as well turn that into something epic. I never expected he would be such a logical choice for Sepulchre's favourite hero, but the message his story gives is one she needed to hear.


	2. No Fire Burns Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle between Sepulchre and Arrav commences.  
> Who will win, and what exactly does 'victory' mean to them? Sepulchre's victory means Arrav's victory, but what happens if Arrav wins?

I thought I knew what I was getting into when I accepted Arrav’s proposal for a fight.

We’d clashed before, but never when he was moving of his own accord. I was expecting the Zemouregal-controlled Arrav. Fate reprimanded this folly, severely.

Arrav rushed like a runaway minecart. I knew his sword’s longer reach meant he’d get the first swing, so when he lifted his up, I put my two swords up to block.

Mentios nearly plummeted to the snow from the force. _What the hell was that?!_ I thought. I needed distance, so I tried to leap backwards.

The snow was half way up my calves and Torva’s armor weighed me down. I don’t know why it surprised me when I barely moved an inch.

_Shit. I can’t move in this snow!_

My opponent had already recovered from that swing and brought his sword back up, the only option was to block again.

I used the force of his upward motion to hop back again. It worked, and I had more distance. This was when the onslaught commenced.

Nothing about him suggested malice, not a single hint of ill will; yet to an onlooker, it would appear Arrav had taken it upon himself to butcher me.

With the ferocity of a raging ourg, he was beginning to hack away at me with his greatsword.

Each swipe was enough to vanquish a dragon. His blade assaulted me from every direction, it was all I could do to make sure both of my blades met his!

Reality struck me with greater clarity with each block I made. _I can’t dodge, I can’t maneuver. His sword has the edge in a standing fight, and he’s stronger than me!_

Probing my mind despairingly, I tried to think up a counter, a strategy, even a way to retreat, anything to help me survive - there was nothing. _He’s stronger now than he was when Zemouregal controlled him. Arrav’s own will was holding his body back in those fights, but now he’s going full force._

Arrav was pushing me back, each strike reverberating up my arms as my blades trembled under his might.

Injuries from the Ritual began to flare up. The gash across my back courtesy of Khazard demanded my attention for a single moment, and I misstepped.

Arrav did not let up as I crashed into the blanket of snow. I was forced to roll, narrowly avoiding his sword. The ringing of his blade grinding against the edge of Torva’s plate filled the air.

Back to my feet, Arrav’s barrage became more varied and aggressive, and he grunted with each lash of his blade.

I gathered the courage to take a swing in the midst of his fury, but he blocked it with his couter. I took another, but my eyes caught his sword whooshing across his form in an instant, blasting Veridico out of my hand. Something frigid shot up my spine.

He wasn’t going to kill me, I knew that. I was only afraid of disappointing him.

_One direct hit from that thing … and I’m finished! _

“You’re holding back, Sepulchre!” Arrav roared, not delaying his blitz. “I do not tire, I do not feel pain! I am beyond human, but so are you!”

_That’s all I needed to hear._

I waited for the right moment to feint, causing him to bring his sword back to defend. There was an opening.

I closed my eyes and concentrated all my thoughts on the blood pumping through my veins. I opened myself up to the vampyric impurity flowing within - I embraced it.

  
I was accustomed to the sudden amplification of my senses. Crunching of snow became audible as he stepped, the fuller of his blade was more apparent, the stale air of the north dried my mouth and the reek of death became obvious.

Now beyond human, I leapt over his horizontal swipe towards my weapon, ten feet away in the white blanket.

My crimson gaze met Arrav’s vermillion leer, he watched like a hawk even while I retrieved Veridico. The blade was not off the ground for a whole second before Arrav barreled forward with a deafening battle-cry.

Torva’s armor was a feather on my shoulder, and my body dashed forward with velocity. _I can move!_

The celerity of a vampyre must’ve caught the Hero of Avarrocka off guard. He hesitated, likely realizing just how much faster I'd become.

 _Using only one blade is too risky, Nex will kill me if I break one._ My twin blades unleashed a flurry of slashes upon the giant before me, and though his arm and his blade deflected each, I was finally gaining ground.

Arrav steeled himself and began to rain down havoc upon me in turn. We fought now on even ground, neither willing to budge an inch any longer.

Vampyric sight allows me to see many things, things that would not be visible to the human eye. Our blades became still against each other for a moment, pushing against the other in a contest of strength. I peered through the helmet of the titan whose blade I locked with. I saw… elation.

 _I think I understand now, Arrav._ _You were always a warrior at heart, weren’t you? Zemouregal could never take that away from you. This has been the death you’ve craved for over a millennium._ My vow to him was silent, but known. _I will_ ** _not_** _fail you. I_ ** _will_** _give you this death._

Easier said than done; the Hunter of the White Stag still out-muscled me, still my bones vibrated with each collision, and my living flesh now grew weary from such sudden, intense combat.

The smashing of our blades continued to sing across the sky with rising intensity, the sheer force behind each swing only magnifying the volume with every impact.

_The longer this goes, the greater his advantage. I have no more options!_

In a desperate gambit, I waited for his next horizontal swipe, aimed from my right.

Rather than bringing up both blades to block, I brought up only my off-hand, the right-hand blade, Mentios.

Calling upon the savagery only a vyre could possess, I lunged forward with Veridico.

While my main blade thrust straight for the heart I had returned to him, my other had been thrown up against the staggering might of his sword.

 _Mentios won’t block this,_ I knew, _but it will slow the advance of his blade. That’s all I need._ Upon touching, I slid my gladius up the edge of the blade, leveling it with my helm.

_If this works, I win. If it doesn’t… I’ve failed you, Arrav._

Arrav’s sword bludgeoned my skull with a thunderclap. Torva’s helm and Mentios provided some small cushion, but the damage was done. I had no chance to stop myself being catapulted off to the side by the force of the blow.

Synchronously, my eyes zeroed in on the spot where I had aimed my strike. Veridico had plowed into the skin of my hero’s chest and - just barely through the glass of the jar - nicked the Heart of Arrav.

The battle was won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That line is too good to NOT use as a chapter title.  
> This was my first time writing an entire scene in the first-person, and I separated the story into chapters because the POV changes from third person to first person for this battle. It changes back in the next chapter.


	3. Saying Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victory has never been so bittersweet.  
> Though they were satisfied to die alongside their defeated opponent, there was one last surprise awaiting the victor of this clash between heroes.

Sepulchre was laid out on her side five feet to the right of Arrav, who himself had fallen to his back. She nearly faded out of consciousness, and it was only through sheer willpower that she was able to roll on to her back.

Feeling the blood pour from the side of her head, she weakly reached up and removed Torva’s helm. The inside of it was already smeared with her blood.

Rolling over onto her stomach, she dragged herself to her feet. Upon attempting to take a step towards the fallen hero, she tumbled back into the snow, leaving a trail of red as she fell forward.

Another attempt was made, but her vision was faint, her body shaken, her balance thrown off. The battering her head took had left her horribly concussed and bleeding.

She staggered only two steps before cratering once more. With her right hand clutching the side of her cranium, minimizing the bleeding, she crawled over to the dying hero.

Her body slumped back into the soft white snow parallel to her opponent. She rolled over, seeing only the midday overcast.

“Arrav…? Are you… there?” She gasped for air between each word.

He hacked violently. “I… am, Sepulchre.” His breathing was even more gaunt than hers.

“Your last move was… most impressive,” he continued. “I was truly” another wheeze, “caught off guard.”

“No…” she groaned, “I only got… lucky. There was a fifty-fifty chance that I would fail.”

“Yes, had you been… only a few centimeters off… it would have…” he rasped. The glow in his veins began to fade; he was down to his last grains of sand.

“You have… saved me, my friend,” he wheezed, “my torment is… over. Before I… before I go, I have a gift for you.” Sepulchre felt something clang against her chest, something sharp and heavy; it was his sword. “Zemouregal… enchanted it to be light, sturdy and sharp. May it serve… you well.” He let out another sickening cough.

Part of her wanted to say no, but how could she? Instead, she thanked him.

“Arrav, thank you. And thank you for not… holding back on that last swing.” Her breathing was regaining normal pace, but a mist was forming in her eyes.

He tried to laugh - it did not sound like a laugh. “To do so would have… been an insult.”

The young hero was choking back tears, for now she too could hear his hourglass emptying. “Arrav…” She paused to stifle a sob. “... Goodbye.”

“Farewell my friend. Varrock is… in your hands, now.” His second attempt at laughter came, the sputter it made shattered the adventurer’s heart. “Now you, Sepulchre… now you are... my h...”

Arrav let out one final rale. The legend’s bell had tolled - he was gone.

For the first time in nearly three years, she let her tears flow freely for many minutes.

Then, slowly, she closed her eyes. _Maybe it's not… maybe I’ll come join you,_ she thought. _Yes, I think I might. Maybe this was my mission? Maybe I’ve fulfilled my purpose?_ she wondered as she surrendered the fight to stay conscious.

The Defender of Varrock was content to die alongside The Hero of Avarrocka.

* * *

Opening her eyes took no small effort. At the first crack of her eyelids there was a blinding light; the sun had come out, it was high noon. _Has it been a whole day?_ she wondered. _No, it couldn’t have been, or I’d be dead. It’s only been maybe an hour? How?_

She sat up, lifting her aching head from the cold snow. Her hand rose with it, for she had passed out still compressing the bloodied side. Wrenching her hand away took little effort, but to her amazement, the bleeding had already ceased.

Noticing several minute details within her surroundings, the realization struck her.

 _I fell into a Vampyric Repose_ , she concluded. The deep inhuman slumber had spurred her blood into a high of sorts, causing it to both coagulate and reproduce at astounding rates. Direct sunlight had broken the stupor.

That mystery solved, Sepulchre’s sight first came upon her helmet and sword only five feet away. She half-rose to retrieve them when something else slipped from her chest. _Arrav’s sword. No, my sword, now…_ she sighed, glancing over at the corpse her other blade was lodged in.

There was something in the corner of her eye, a creature looming above the remains of Arrav. She spun to her feet, unnerved by the undetectable presence.

A tall figure - at least eight feet from top to bottom - hung in midair at the head of the corpse. This silent observer was attired in a deep cerulean hooded robe, adorned with pristine bones that shaped a chestpiece, tassets, bracers and horned pauldrons.

Its hands were devoid of flesh or muscle, the boned digits of one folded over a handle connecting two larger bones, a small scythe blade held by the bottom. The upper one, however, was somehow merged with a split curved bone above it. This bone firmly held one other, and between them sat a fused pair of massive scythe blades, resembling some sort of guillotine pincers.

Sepulchre’s pale Morytanian complexion faded to ghostly white when the skull beneath the hood turned the icy arctic beams in its sockets on her.

“Valenthia Myrmel. No, you go by ‘Sepulchre,’ don’t you?” The voice from within the cowl was low, bordering on gruff, yet, it was also melodic - silvery, even. 

“Y-yes sir.” She whimpered, “Are… are you D-Death?”

The Reaper of Souls nodded. “I owe you much gratitude. You have freed many trapped souls that my power could not reach.”

Her fear was not assuaged. “I-I have? Wh-when?”

“Eight wizards, whose souls were incomplete. You freed the fragments from the Tower ruins, and their ‘deaths’ returned them to their souls. They were the first you rescued.

“There were also the pirates, under the dreaded Captain Rabid Jack,” she twitched at the name, prompting Death to pause. “And the deaths of many elder Vyrewatch freed their human souls.”

“Hang on,” she interrupted, “Vampyres aren’t undead.” This was a very personal, very touchy subject.

“They are not, but you are well aware that no method of vampyrification is natural.” He gave her a knowing nod. “The souls were trapped in mutated bodies that should have died long ago. Among the vampyres you have released were two very special souls; the legendary priest Ivandis Seergaze, and King Ascertes Hallow.”

“So Vanstrom was…” She was hesitant to ask. She had suspected it ever since Drakan accused the Myreque of his murder, but could never find confirmation.

Again, the Reaper gave a simple nod.

“I would consider this your most merciful release. Souls trapped in a vampyrised husk do not suffer much, but the Hero of Avarrocka has been in constant torment for over twelve-hundred years.”

The Grim Reaper seemed almost appreciative. “I find such a defilement of the soul revolting, and feeling his soul released brought me no small joy. That your time has not yet come is fortunate, for you have been a great enforcer of Balance.”

“Have you already freed him?” she asked, almost wishing for one more chance to say goodbye.

“His soul is with Icthlarin now,” Death confirmed, “and his body will imminently turn to dust. However, as you have been of great assistance to me, I shall aid you in turn.”

The Reaper’s scythe began to vibrate, radiating a green aura. Softly, the skeletal guardian touched this scythe to Arrav’s chest. “His remains will not survive teleportation, but should you inhume them nearby, the frigid north shall preserve them.

“I am needed elsewhere, Sepulchre. Finish your business here... and do not linger in any shadows.”

The latter part of this seemed a warning more than advice. Sepulchre opened her mouth to question it, but the Reaper had gone off to attend to his duties. With a sigh, she went about retrieving her own things - including her new sword - and the corpse of the great hero.

  
Somewhere that won’t be disturbed, would be easy for her to find, and could be marked appropriately. Only one place nearby suited these expectations; The walls of Ghorrock. There was a spot she knew of, on the far eastern side of the outer-south wall. Far from the Ritual site or any broken part of the wall, identifiable by the large embrasure above, and made of solid stone perfect for carving.

Resting the body gently nearby, the adventurer reached into her pack and pulled out a rune pouch. Basic fire magic made short work of the frozen sheet hiding the clay beneath, and earth magic sufficed for excavating the grave.

In respect to an old Saradominist tradition, Arrav was interred in full armor. She felt it irreverent to return the soil with trivial magic, instead retrieving a spade from her pack to manually complete the burial process. This took some time longer than the magic would have, but before long, it was done.

She brought forth her vyre senses for the carving. _It will be immaculate,_ she decreed in her mind. _Anything less and I should be hanged._

The sun was setting when she was finally satisfied with her work.

First, she had etched a large detailed image of the Shield of Arrav five feet off the ground. On either side of this, she carved two bird-like figures, wings spread and facing outward - the symbol found on decorative armour honoring Arrav. Above the shield she cut in the Star of Saradomin, for the ‘Book of Arrav’ could not be forgotten. Beneath the shield she marked the crest of Varrock: two crossed swords, overlapping at the forte.

Finally, in the most elegant script she had ever written or will ever write, she had engraved within the shield's image:  
  


14 Ire of Phyrrys 181 V  
Here lies Arrav  
Hero of Avarrocka, Curse of Goblins  
Hunter of the White Stag, Child of the Sun and Moon  
Bane of Zemouregal  
Sire of Misthalin  
In life he sacrificed, in death he suffered  
In battle he found salvation  
May he rest in peace, and may Saradomin guide his soul to light  
  


Kneeling before this memorial she had constructed, Sepulchre prayed to Saradomin for the first time in her 29 years of life.

When her prayer concluded, she rose to her feet, standing upright. She donned her helmet and heaved Arrav’s sword across her shoulder, then marched with discipline up to the wall. She placed her hand at the center of the Shield’s image.

Beneath the metal, her eyes were closed. As they had repeatedly this day, tears began to form in them - but they were not tears of anguish. After twelve long centuries, she had closed the book on his torment. How could she not shed tears of joy?

“Rest easy, hero of Varrock.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think a grave for Arrav would've been an appropriate thing for the post-quest scene. I've always thought the wall of Ghorrock were a little bare anyway, so they could certainly use a beautiful inscription or two.


End file.
